Neighborhood.
Posted: 02 Dec 2024, 09:55
From the Westside with Love - Episode 1
Elijah swirled the deep crimson liquid in his glass, watching it catch the fading sunlight streaming through the bay windows. The golden hour bathed their modest Craftsman home in a warm glow, softening the edges of their situation for just a moment.
"So," Loraine sighed, sinking deeper into the plush sectional, "how much longer do we have?”
Elijah's eyes flicked to the pile of papers strewn across the coffee table – a haphazard monument to their dwindling savings. He took a long sip of wine before answering, savoring the bitter notes that matched his mood.
"Until the judge rules on the restitution…" he trailed off, searching for a word that wouldn't send his wife into a panic spiral, “It’s hard to say.”
"It can’t be worse than what they gave Muncie," she offered, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. "We at least had the decency to not stock up our garage, get a membership at the club house. Hung around white folks so much he thought he became one.”
Despite the knot in his stomach, Elijah couldn't help but smile. Even in the depths of their stress, Loraine's humor shone through. "He did go kind of crazy," he admitted.
The distant howl of coyotes drifted up from the chaparral-covered hills, a haunting reminder of the wild edges that bordered their slice of Southern California suburbia. Loraine shivered, though the evening was warm.
"I just want it to be over," she whispered, her voice small and fragile. "Every time I close my eyes, I see dollar bills with little wings, flying away from us."
Elijah shook his head, “We would have been fine too, without it. I mean, it would have cut into our nest but we’d have survived, better off than where we’re at right now.”
“No, no, no. I get all this personal responsibility shit that you’re on and I love you as a man for it but this is Muncie’s fault, okay? What’s the fucking point of paying for an accountant if he can’t do some accountant shit?”
“He did too much accountant shit is the problem,” he scoffed, “I never should have trusted that slick talking motherfucker.”
“He’ll have plenty of time to do some accounting,” she guffawed, “Five years is…aren’t his kids about to graduate high school?”
“His oldest already graduated last year,” Elijah corrected her, “The youngest is Ke’s grade, I think. I don’t ever want to see no Black man go to jail but…”
“He should have thought about that before if he set us up and set all those other people up too,” she cut him off, “That ain’t on us, that ain’t on you. He would have gotten locked up regardless, don’t make no sense for us to not help our case by keeping our mouths closed.”
“What would folks from the “neighborhood” think about you turning rat?” Elijah teased with a sarcastic tone, “Not the daughter of the OG, triple OG.”
"If you keep talking, I swear I'll throw this very expensive wine towards your head," Loraine interrupted, though a ghost of a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Elijah mimed zipping his lips, then refilled both their glasses. The weight of their situation settled over them like a heavy blanket, stifling and oppressive. Outside, a neighbor's wind chimes tinkled softly, a discordant melody that seemed to echo their jumbled thoughts.
….
The bass thumped through the floorboards, vibrating up Keshawn's legs as he leaned against the wall, nursing a red Solo cup filled with something that definitely wasn't just punch. He towered over most of the other kids at the party, his tall frame making him stand out even when he was trying his hardest to blend in.
Across the crowded living room, bathed in the pulsing glow of multicolored LED lights, stood the girl he had been eyeing all night. Her curly hair bounced as she laughed at something her friend whispered, the sound barely audible over the trap beat blaring from the speakers. Keshawn's heart did a little flip every time she smiled, revealing a set of perfect teeth that contrasted beautifully with her dark skin.
He took another sip of his drink, grimacing at the burn. Dutch courage, his friends called it. Right now, he needed all the courage he could get. He ran a hand over his hair as if it was a hairbrush, a nervous habit he'd picked up somewhere along the way.
"Just go talk to her, man," his inside voice told him. "What’s the worst that could happen.
Keshawn shook his head, suddenly fascinated by the scuffed toes of his Air Jordans. He glanced up again, catching her eye for a brief moment before they both looked away, cheeks burning. The party swirled around them, a kaleidoscope of teenage energy and hormones. Someone had cranked up the AC to combat the heat generated by dozens of dancing bodies, and goosebumps prickled along Keshawn's arms.
Taking a deep breath, Keshawn straightened up, squaring his broad shoulders. It was now or never. He took one step forward, then another, weaving through the crowd with a grace that belied his size. The closer he got, the more beautiful she became, her features coming into sharper focus.
His feet, which had been moving with such purpose just moments ago, now felt like they were encased in concrete. The noise of the party seemed to amplify, pressing in on him from all sides. He could hear snatches of conversation, punctuated by raucous laughter and the clinking of bottles. The smell of spilled beer and cheap cologne hung heavy in the air, making him feel slightly nauseous.
Keshawn's gaze darted around the room, looking for an escape route. His eyes landed on a group of his friends gathered around a beer pong table in the corner. The red Solo cups were arranged in neat triangles at each end, a battlefield of potential inebriation. The ping pong ball arced through the air, landing with a soft 'plop' in one of the cups.
Relief flooded through him as he changed course, veering away from the girl and towards the familiar faces of his crew. He could feel her eyes on his back as he retreated, and he hunched his shoulders slightly, willing himself to disappear into the crowd.
"Yo, Keshawn!" called out Gavin as he approached the table. "Where you been hiding, big man? We need another player!"
Keshawn forced a grin, hoping it didn't look as fake as it felt. "Just checking out the scene," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "You guys look like you could use some real competition."
The group erupted in good-natured jeers and trash talk. Keshawn felt himself relaxing as he fell into the familiar rhythm of banter with his friends. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, catching a glimpse of the girl through the crowd. She was still laughing with her friends, seemingly unaware of his aborted attempt to approach her.
As he turned back to the game, Keshawn felt a mixture of relief and regret settle in his chest. He pushed the feelings aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. Gavin handed him a ping pong ball, its surface slightly sticky from countless handling.
"Alright, Kobe," Gavin teased, "show us what you got."
…
Vic trudged up the cracked sidewalk, his gym bag slung over one shoulder as the sweat trickled down his back, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
As he approached his house, a faded yellow bungalow with peeling paint and an overgrown lawn, Vic noticed Mrs. Hernandez from next door watering her prized roses. The old woman squinted at him over her thick glasses, raising a gnarled hand in greeting.
"Hola, Victor," she called out, her accent thick and musical. "How was your day, mijo?"
Vic mustered a tired smile. "What’s going on, Mrs. H? It was good, thanks." He paused, eyeing the colorful blooms that lined her immaculate garden. "Your garden putting us to shame, miss.”
Mrs. Hernandez beamed, momentarily forgetting the heat as she launched into a detailed explanation of her latest horticultural techniques. Vic nodded politely, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to edge towards his front door.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. H," he interrupted gently when she paused for breath. "I've got to get ready for work. Maybe you can tell me more about the roses later?"
The old woman waved him off with a fond smile. "Of course, of course. Don't let me keep you, mijo. Say hello to your mama for me."
Vic gave her a final wave before practically sprinting up his own crumbling walkway. He fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath as he dropped them twice before managing to unlock the door.
The door creaked open, releasing a burst of cool air that made Vic's skin prickle. The living room was neat but worn, with mismatched furniture and faded family photos lining the walls. A threadbare rug covered most of the scuffed hardwood floor, its once-vibrant pattern now muted by years of foot traffic.
As Vic moved further into the house, he noticed his uncle sprawled across the ancient plaid couch. Uncle Quincy's face was ashen, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched a tattered throw pillow to his chest. Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes, which met Vic's for a brief, intense moment.
The air between them crackled with unspoken words. Vic could almost taste the acrid tang of withdrawal, could feel the desperation radiating off his uncle in waves. He wanted to say something – anything – but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he gave a small nod, which Quincy returned before closing his eyes and turning his face to the back of the couch.
Vic continued down the narrow hallway, its walls lined with peeling wallpaper in a faded floral print. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, each step echoing in the quiet house. Family portraits hung crookedly, capturing happier times – his parents' wedding, his own gap-toothed kindergarten smile, a faded Polaroid of his grandparents.
Just as he reached for the doorknob of his room, a voice called out from the kitchen. "Vic?”
He paused, hand hovering over the worn brass knob. "Yeah, Ma. It's me."
His mother, Eleanora, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a frayed dishtowel. She was a small woman, barely reaching Vic's shoulder, but her presence filled the narrow hallway. The lines around her eyes crinkled as she smiled up at him, though worry lurked in the depths of her gaze.
“You heading out?” she asked, sizing him up.
“Yeah, picked up a shift,” he answered.
His mother nodded, her eyes darting briefly towards the living room. "That's good, that's good," she murmured, almost to herself. Then, more firmly, "You’re uncle and aunt’s court date is tomorrow.”
“So?” Vic shrugged, drawing a furrowed brow from his mother.
“We have to show support, you know how that shit impacts what they get.”
“Exactly, I do know,” he scoffed, “And they weren’t there for Trey’s sentencing or his parole hearings, not a single one of them.”
“That’s a completely different situation,” she waved him off, “Just show up, okay?”
“Whatever,” he sucked his teeth as he opened the door to his room.
“You better be there!” she managed to sneak in before he closed the door behind him.
Elijah swirled the deep crimson liquid in his glass, watching it catch the fading sunlight streaming through the bay windows. The golden hour bathed their modest Craftsman home in a warm glow, softening the edges of their situation for just a moment.
"So," Loraine sighed, sinking deeper into the plush sectional, "how much longer do we have?”
Elijah's eyes flicked to the pile of papers strewn across the coffee table – a haphazard monument to their dwindling savings. He took a long sip of wine before answering, savoring the bitter notes that matched his mood.
"Until the judge rules on the restitution…" he trailed off, searching for a word that wouldn't send his wife into a panic spiral, “It’s hard to say.”
"It can’t be worse than what they gave Muncie," she offered, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. "We at least had the decency to not stock up our garage, get a membership at the club house. Hung around white folks so much he thought he became one.”
Despite the knot in his stomach, Elijah couldn't help but smile. Even in the depths of their stress, Loraine's humor shone through. "He did go kind of crazy," he admitted.
The distant howl of coyotes drifted up from the chaparral-covered hills, a haunting reminder of the wild edges that bordered their slice of Southern California suburbia. Loraine shivered, though the evening was warm.
"I just want it to be over," she whispered, her voice small and fragile. "Every time I close my eyes, I see dollar bills with little wings, flying away from us."
Elijah shook his head, “We would have been fine too, without it. I mean, it would have cut into our nest but we’d have survived, better off than where we’re at right now.”
“No, no, no. I get all this personal responsibility shit that you’re on and I love you as a man for it but this is Muncie’s fault, okay? What’s the fucking point of paying for an accountant if he can’t do some accountant shit?”
“He did too much accountant shit is the problem,” he scoffed, “I never should have trusted that slick talking motherfucker.”
“He’ll have plenty of time to do some accounting,” she guffawed, “Five years is…aren’t his kids about to graduate high school?”
“His oldest already graduated last year,” Elijah corrected her, “The youngest is Ke’s grade, I think. I don’t ever want to see no Black man go to jail but…”
“He should have thought about that before if he set us up and set all those other people up too,” she cut him off, “That ain’t on us, that ain’t on you. He would have gotten locked up regardless, don’t make no sense for us to not help our case by keeping our mouths closed.”
“What would folks from the “neighborhood” think about you turning rat?” Elijah teased with a sarcastic tone, “Not the daughter of the OG, triple OG.”
"If you keep talking, I swear I'll throw this very expensive wine towards your head," Loraine interrupted, though a ghost of a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Elijah mimed zipping his lips, then refilled both their glasses. The weight of their situation settled over them like a heavy blanket, stifling and oppressive. Outside, a neighbor's wind chimes tinkled softly, a discordant melody that seemed to echo their jumbled thoughts.
….
The bass thumped through the floorboards, vibrating up Keshawn's legs as he leaned against the wall, nursing a red Solo cup filled with something that definitely wasn't just punch. He towered over most of the other kids at the party, his tall frame making him stand out even when he was trying his hardest to blend in.
Across the crowded living room, bathed in the pulsing glow of multicolored LED lights, stood the girl he had been eyeing all night. Her curly hair bounced as she laughed at something her friend whispered, the sound barely audible over the trap beat blaring from the speakers. Keshawn's heart did a little flip every time she smiled, revealing a set of perfect teeth that contrasted beautifully with her dark skin.
He took another sip of his drink, grimacing at the burn. Dutch courage, his friends called it. Right now, he needed all the courage he could get. He ran a hand over his hair as if it was a hairbrush, a nervous habit he'd picked up somewhere along the way.
"Just go talk to her, man," his inside voice told him. "What’s the worst that could happen.
Keshawn shook his head, suddenly fascinated by the scuffed toes of his Air Jordans. He glanced up again, catching her eye for a brief moment before they both looked away, cheeks burning. The party swirled around them, a kaleidoscope of teenage energy and hormones. Someone had cranked up the AC to combat the heat generated by dozens of dancing bodies, and goosebumps prickled along Keshawn's arms.
Taking a deep breath, Keshawn straightened up, squaring his broad shoulders. It was now or never. He took one step forward, then another, weaving through the crowd with a grace that belied his size. The closer he got, the more beautiful she became, her features coming into sharper focus.
His feet, which had been moving with such purpose just moments ago, now felt like they were encased in concrete. The noise of the party seemed to amplify, pressing in on him from all sides. He could hear snatches of conversation, punctuated by raucous laughter and the clinking of bottles. The smell of spilled beer and cheap cologne hung heavy in the air, making him feel slightly nauseous.
Keshawn's gaze darted around the room, looking for an escape route. His eyes landed on a group of his friends gathered around a beer pong table in the corner. The red Solo cups were arranged in neat triangles at each end, a battlefield of potential inebriation. The ping pong ball arced through the air, landing with a soft 'plop' in one of the cups.
Relief flooded through him as he changed course, veering away from the girl and towards the familiar faces of his crew. He could feel her eyes on his back as he retreated, and he hunched his shoulders slightly, willing himself to disappear into the crowd.
"Yo, Keshawn!" called out Gavin as he approached the table. "Where you been hiding, big man? We need another player!"
Keshawn forced a grin, hoping it didn't look as fake as it felt. "Just checking out the scene," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "You guys look like you could use some real competition."
The group erupted in good-natured jeers and trash talk. Keshawn felt himself relaxing as he fell into the familiar rhythm of banter with his friends. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, catching a glimpse of the girl through the crowd. She was still laughing with her friends, seemingly unaware of his aborted attempt to approach her.
As he turned back to the game, Keshawn felt a mixture of relief and regret settle in his chest. He pushed the feelings aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. Gavin handed him a ping pong ball, its surface slightly sticky from countless handling.
"Alright, Kobe," Gavin teased, "show us what you got."
…
Vic trudged up the cracked sidewalk, his gym bag slung over one shoulder as the sweat trickled down his back, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
As he approached his house, a faded yellow bungalow with peeling paint and an overgrown lawn, Vic noticed Mrs. Hernandez from next door watering her prized roses. The old woman squinted at him over her thick glasses, raising a gnarled hand in greeting.
"Hola, Victor," she called out, her accent thick and musical. "How was your day, mijo?"
Vic mustered a tired smile. "What’s going on, Mrs. H? It was good, thanks." He paused, eyeing the colorful blooms that lined her immaculate garden. "Your garden putting us to shame, miss.”
Mrs. Hernandez beamed, momentarily forgetting the heat as she launched into a detailed explanation of her latest horticultural techniques. Vic nodded politely, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to edge towards his front door.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. H," he interrupted gently when she paused for breath. "I've got to get ready for work. Maybe you can tell me more about the roses later?"
The old woman waved him off with a fond smile. "Of course, of course. Don't let me keep you, mijo. Say hello to your mama for me."
Vic gave her a final wave before practically sprinting up his own crumbling walkway. He fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath as he dropped them twice before managing to unlock the door.
The door creaked open, releasing a burst of cool air that made Vic's skin prickle. The living room was neat but worn, with mismatched furniture and faded family photos lining the walls. A threadbare rug covered most of the scuffed hardwood floor, its once-vibrant pattern now muted by years of foot traffic.
As Vic moved further into the house, he noticed his uncle sprawled across the ancient plaid couch. Uncle Quincy's face was ashen, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched a tattered throw pillow to his chest. Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes, which met Vic's for a brief, intense moment.
The air between them crackled with unspoken words. Vic could almost taste the acrid tang of withdrawal, could feel the desperation radiating off his uncle in waves. He wanted to say something – anything – but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he gave a small nod, which Quincy returned before closing his eyes and turning his face to the back of the couch.
Vic continued down the narrow hallway, its walls lined with peeling wallpaper in a faded floral print. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, each step echoing in the quiet house. Family portraits hung crookedly, capturing happier times – his parents' wedding, his own gap-toothed kindergarten smile, a faded Polaroid of his grandparents.
Just as he reached for the doorknob of his room, a voice called out from the kitchen. "Vic?”
He paused, hand hovering over the worn brass knob. "Yeah, Ma. It's me."
His mother, Eleanora, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a frayed dishtowel. She was a small woman, barely reaching Vic's shoulder, but her presence filled the narrow hallway. The lines around her eyes crinkled as she smiled up at him, though worry lurked in the depths of her gaze.
“You heading out?” she asked, sizing him up.
“Yeah, picked up a shift,” he answered.
His mother nodded, her eyes darting briefly towards the living room. "That's good, that's good," she murmured, almost to herself. Then, more firmly, "You’re uncle and aunt’s court date is tomorrow.”
“So?” Vic shrugged, drawing a furrowed brow from his mother.
“We have to show support, you know how that shit impacts what they get.”
“Exactly, I do know,” he scoffed, “And they weren’t there for Trey’s sentencing or his parole hearings, not a single one of them.”
“That’s a completely different situation,” she waved him off, “Just show up, okay?”
“Whatever,” he sucked his teeth as he opened the door to his room.
“You better be there!” she managed to sneak in before he closed the door behind him.
Let's see where this goes